In Good Hands
by LadyEnterprise1701
Summary: "Colonel Sink is right: Dick Winters has a particular attachment to his old company. He's not ashamed of it, either. The men of Easy Company are his friends—no, scratch that—they're his brothers—and God help the man who just sits there and nearly gets them all killed because he can't or just won't do his job." Captain Dick Winters' POV during and after the Battle of Foy.


_A/N: I wrote this in a single day, in a frantic rush to just get words down on paper after an unavoidable writing hiatus. I don't own anything from HBO (if I did I would've already released the_ Band of Brothers _deleted scenes/episodes) and I have the utmost respect for the men of Easy Company (although Dike's conduct at Foy was, I'm afraid, pretty lacking and Winters' resentment towards him totally understandable.)_

 _Currahee!_

* * *

Everything's going just fine until he sees his men freeze in their tracks, duck, and squat in a huddle for no apparent reason. It's like they're trying to make themselves small against a non-existent flyover of enemy planes. Planes aren't coming, though—just German artillery. And _that_ is coming in hard and fast from Foy.

It makes no sense, and that scares him to death. His heart pounds. His head feels light. Everything is moving so fast, he can't quite grasp all the details swirling around him: the town ahead, Colonel Sink behind, Dog Company in reserve…

And Easy Company. Easy alone. Easy vulnerable. Easy unmoving.

" _Keep moving forward!_ "

Captain Dick Winters shouts as loud as he can, but his cold-burned lungs and throat make his voice thin and reedy and the artillery just drowns it out anyway. He can just make out Dike's head in the center of the huddle, Sergeant Lipton's wide shoulders hunched over him, and the radio box on George Luz's back. Winters whips around, faces the line of stunned men watching the debacle with open mouths.

"Radio!" he snaps.

Someone hurries up to him and he snatches the receiver off the radio just as an incoming shell lands with a thud and a spray of snow and mud thirty feet from where he stands. Winters doesn't flinch. He puts the receiver to his mouth and faces the battle again.

"Easy, Easy—give me Dike!" he cries.

Easy's scattering now, some racing to the left towards the buildings on Foy's outskirts, others scrambling behind haystacks. A haystack's not gonna hold up if a shell hits it. It'll go up in flames and take his men with it—

 _Keep your head screwed on, Winters._

The radio crackles. _"Captain Winters?"_

George Luz's voice comes over the other end as a shaky shout. Winters grips the receiver a little tighter.

"Get me Dike, George!"

A pause, during which distant screams carry on the wind into the Bois Jacques.

 _"Sir, he won't take the radio—"_

"Get him on with me _NOW_!"

Luz shouts a frantic _"Yes, sir, I'm trying!"_ and then Winters doesn't hear anything else. His men are dropping like dominoes. He hasn't seen anything this bad since Eindhoven—the last time sheer incompetence and bad planning left Easy boys dead. But this _wasn't_ bad planning—they had a plan—he'd gone over it with Dike barely an hour ago—!

 _But he's incompetent. You've_ known _he's incompetent. And the fact that you didn't remove him and put somebody else in his places makes_ you _incompetent, too._

 _Maybe if I'd fought for his replacement…maybe if I'd put Buck in his place, Buck wouldn't_ _have crumbled…if I'd listened to Carwood…_

Winters blinks, gives his head a quick shake. There's no time to agonize over what-if's. The artillery's almost as bad now as the day Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye got it. He slams the receiver back on the radio box, storms closer to the edge of the Bois Jacques. The little group huddled behind the haystack flinches every time a shell hits ground. Luz all but shoves the radio receiver in Dike's face. There's a lot of shouting coming from that general direction; he thinks he can discern Lipton's deep, gravelly bellow over the chaos, but he can't make out the words.

Somebody leaps out from behind the hay— _Foley?—_ and another man follows. Winters leans forward, hopeful that something's going to happen, that the rest of the men are going to follow. He holds his breath until Foley reaches the cluster of men waiting behind an old barn.

A rifle shot cracks the air. The man on Foley's heels lurches with a scream. Another shot, and blood sprays from his punctured helmet.

That's too much. Winters seizes the M1 strapped over his shoulder, yanks it off, grips it with both hands, and starts tearing through the deep snow that's tormented the 101st for weeks.

"You've got—to keep— _MOVING_!" he screams.

"Dick! Dick! _CAPTAIN WINTERS!_ "

Winters freezes at Sink's panicked voice.

"G—d—it, you do _not_ go out there!" Sink roars. "You're a battalion commander—now get back here!"

Winters lets out a hard breath like somebody's just punched him in the gut. The cold burns his nose, his eyes, his throat, his chapped face—but suddenly he's not seeing the snow or the spurts of fire from concealed German cannons or even the dark frantic figures darting in and out of hiding spots. For a split second there he's not even in Europe. He's on Mount Currahee and it's warm and humid and he's still running…alongside those men. His men. His _friends._ Their booted feet slam the gravel road up the mountain, all of them gritting their teeth and fixing their eyes on the top of the mountain while Sobel screams and berates and tells them they're not good enough, they'll never make the cut, _why the hell don't you just give up and go home?!_

And then George Luz starts singing. Not here in Foy, but on Mount Currahee.

 _"Fall upon the risers, fall upon the grass…"_

It's faint and breathless but somebody joins in and then another until the chant finally drowns out Sobel's shrill voice and even Winters joins in, profanity or no profanity, because it's either that or letting Sobel's accusations of worthlessness get to him.

 _"Zim-zam, g_ — _d_ — _n, **we're air-borne in-fan-TRY**!"_

Artillery crashes down. Winters takes one last desperate look at his floundering friends and turns on his heel.

 _God help me, they have_ got _to get through that field—and once they're in that field they can connect with I Company and then we've got 'em—but God help me, God help them, because_ _Dike's good as dead to the whole battalion…_

 _I can't lose my men!_

His gaze darts to the side. Ronald Speirs, waiting at the head of Dog Company, looks straight at him. Winters' thoughts stop, choke, and kick back into high-gear.

 _Speirs._

"Now, Dick," Sink begins, "I understand your attachment to Easy Company, but"

" _SPEIRS, GET YOURSELF OVER HERE!_ " Winters roars.

Sink's mouth snaps shut. He's probably never heard Winters raise his voice like that. Neither has Speirs. He comes forward on the double-quick.

"Sir?"

"Get out there and relieve Dike and take that attack into Foy!"

Speirs gives Winters a crisp nod and launches into a long, leaping run. Winters watches him. _Natural-born killer, may or may not have murdered German POWs in cold blood—_

 _Stop it, stop it, I DON'T CARE_.

Another shell whistles in and for a moment he's terrified that it's going to hit Speirs. If it does, he really _will_ run across that field and take command of Easy himself, no matter what Sink says. The shell lands with another huge spray of snow and dirt, mere feet from Speirs' location.

But the lieutenant just races straight through the flying debris, sliding in next to the men huddled by the haystack.

Winters holds his breath. Watches Speirs grab Dike by the coat, release him roughly, then turn to Sergeant Lipton and the others with quick, firm gestures of his hand.

Five seconds, and he's off. With Easy following on his heels.

Winters exhales. Only Dike remains, crouched behind the haystack. Winters sets his jaw, folds his arms over his chest, and forces himself not to watch the man, keeping his eyes instead on Speirs' and Easy's advance into Foy.

* * *

That evening, after weeks of inching through the Ardennes, the 101st finally claims Foy. Frank Perconte's been sent to the aid station—"shot right where you'd expect," Lipton tells Winters with a weary, good-natured grin that Winters can't help returning. It's become a joke, the way Easy men tend to catch bullets where the sun never shines.

But there are plenty of others who aren't so lucky. Some were killed during the actual battle in town…but others died in that open field as sitting ducks.

When he thinks of that—when he thinks of those young lives wasted because one man lost his nerve— _because he didn't listen to the plan and OWN it_ —a dark anger tears at the edges of Dick Winters' mind. Norman Dike doesn't deserve to command a squad, let alone a company, but he's somebody's favorite back at Regimental HQ and probably convinced he can earn a promotion on the basis of personal connections and a few half-hearted efforts. He's absent and out of touch, but worst of all, he leaves his men to fend for themselves.

Dick Winters isn't a hateful man. He rarely loses his temper. He's made a point, as commander, to seek out a man's best qualities and skills and then utilize them for the good of the company (or battalion). But tonight, he _hates_ Norman Dike for what he did this morning.

 _For nearly getting my men killed._

Colonel Sink is right: Dick Winters has a particular attachment to his old company. He's not ashamed of it, either. The men of Easy Company are his friends—no, scratch that—they're his _brothers—_ and God help the man who raises a finger against men like Carwood Lipton, George Luz, Don Malarkey, Bull Randleman, Floyd Talbert, or any of the others he's been with for over two years.

 _And God help the man who just sits there and nearly gets them all killed because he can't or just_ won't _do his job._

* * *

He walks into Sink's new headquarters—a house in the center of Foy the colonel's commandeer-ed. A fire crackles on the hearth. A spartan but still substantial meal— _not_ K rations—graces the table. It's the first real warmth he's felt in weeks, and at the sight of the food his stomach growls. Loudly.

Sink, sitting at the table with Colonel Strayer, looks up and smiles.

"Captain Winters. How's Second Battalion holding up?"

"Fine, sir." Winters rolls his helmet between his hands, shares a quick glance with Lew Nixon across the room; his best friend offers a quick one-sided grin before returning his attention to the maps spread over his improvised desk. "I've got men on patrols in and around the town. The rest of them have found places to bed down for the night."

"That's good. Your men deserve a good night's rest after the hell they've been through these past few weeks."

"Yes, sir." It's all Winters can think to say. He's too tired to act chipper, even if he wanted to. Sink must sense that; he nods, then gestures kindly to the empty chair across from Strayer.

"Si'down, Dick. We need to talk, and _you_ need to eat somethin'."

Winters hesitates, glances at Strayer. The lieutenant colonel may not be the best soldier in the 101st, but he's a good man: he offers a quiet, encouraging smile of his own and hands Winters another plate. The food consists of a tureen of thick beans and some brown bread—nothing fancy, but it's warm and Winters hopes—oh God, he hopes—that his men are getting similar fare in their new quarters.

"I understand you've been right there with the men ever since we dug in at Bastogne," Sink remarks, once Winters has gotten a few bites of food into him.

Winters nods, unsure of where this is going. "Yes, sir. I like to keep an eye on things."

"Of course you do. Every good commander does. And from what I hear from certain officers, you've struck a fine balance between hovering and indifference when it comes to Second Battalion. You keep one finger on the pulse without smothering your men. That's commendable."

Winters shoots another glance in Nixon's direction, but Nix pointedly ignores him. Sink either doesn't notice or ignores it.

"Every man I've talked to has nothin' but respect for you, Dick. You don't think twice about suffering alongside your men. I don't regret preventin' you from running out there and gettin' yourself killed this morning, not one bit—but I'm downright proud of you for wantin' to get out there and rally your men. And that's not just commendable, it's _remarkable_."

Winters swallows, shakes his head. "Nothing remarkable about it, Colonel. My men could've been slaughtered out there today. If I could've prevented that, I would have, without hesitation."

He pauses, then adds quietly, "No matter which company was under fire."

"But you won't deny that Easy Company is… _special_ ," Strayer says.

Winters lets his gaze fall to the surface of the table. "It's my old company, sir. I have a lot of friends there. Men I trained with in Toccoa. Men who went with me into Normandy. You can't just…disassociate yourself from that…or those memories."

He glances up in time to see Sink and Strayer exchange a meaningful look—the exact meaning, though, he's not sure. Nix isn't even pretending to study the maps anymore; he watches the colonels, too, and looks like he might even be holding his breath.

Sink clears his throat, reaches for the bottle of scotch standing between his plate and Strayer's. "Dick…what are you gonna do about Easy Company?"

Winters blinks. Sink raises an eyebrow.

"Lieutenant Dike's been declared unfit for duty. Took a ricocheting bullet to the shoulder, you know. _Might_ be why he froze under fire." Sink's eyebrow climbs even higher towards his hairline. "It's just a flesh wound, so it shouldn't take too long for him to recover, but by the time he's outta that sling his skills may be in demand elsewhere…say, regimental headquarters. Can't be _sure_ of that, but…I could use your recommendation."

With that his other eyebrow shoots up, and Winters suddenly understands. Up till now, there's been no good reason to get rid of Dike. He's a favorite of the Powers-That-Be, and they won't listen to complaints that he naps too much or wanders too far from the front line. But now there's proof of his incompetence. Now there's reason to transfer him.

Easy Company will be without a commander. And for the first time since Moose Heyliger got shot, Dick Winters can make sure his men are in good hands.

"Captain Winters," Sink asks again, "what are you gonna do about E Company?"

"Replace Lieutenant Dike with Lieutenant Speirs," Winters says firmly.

Sink's eyebrows descend and contract. "Speirs is a man with a reputation, Dick…a lot different than any man who's ever commanded Easy before…"

"I know. But he's a good soldier and the Toccoa men respect him as such. I may have my own qualms about his personal character, but he saved lives this morning. And that's a lot more than I can say about Lieutenant Dike."

Sink nods. Winters wonders, vaguely, why this decision isn't being made by Colonel Strayer, but perhaps it's for the same reason Winters never trusted Dike: Strayer is rarely on the front lines, he doesn't know the companies nearly as intimately as Winters does, and Sink knows it. But Strayer looks as approving and enthusiastic as weary minds and bodies will allow; if he feels any resentment over Sink breaking the chain of command, he's not showing it.

And he's really such an open, honest man that Winters doubts it exists at all.

"All right," Sink says after a moment's thoughtful silence. "I've considered your recommendation, Dick, and I'm gonna act on it. Effective immediately, Lieutenant Speirs is in command

of Easy Company."

Winters swallows back a sigh of relief and nods. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

The next morning, walking through snow-puddles down Foy's main street, Winters catches sight of Norman Dike climbing aboard a truck headed for regimental headquarters further up the line. Dike looks morose. His arm _is_ in a sling; he looks like he hasn't slept. Winters slows his strides and for a moment his chest tightens with sympathy…and then he remembers.

 _You made my men stop under fire._

 _You refused to get on the radio._

 _You didn't listen to the plan I laid out for you so simply, my kid sister could've carried it out._

 _You could've gotten Toccoa men killed._

 _You nearly got my friends killed._

Dike doesn't see him and Winters doesn't try to catch his eye. If they make eye contact, Dike will salute and for the first time in his Army life Winters doesn't know if he'll be able to follow protocol and salute back. He walks on with long, resolute strides and keeps his eyes elsewhere.

The former commander of Dog Company waits for him on the edge of town, looking over the field Easy Company crossed twenty-four hours ago. They acknowledge each other with obligatory salutes before returning their gazes to the snowy, debris-spattered area. Winters hugs himself, tucking his cold hands in his armpits.

"Colonel Sink talked with you about the transfer?" he asks.

Speirs nods, shifts his rifle in the crook of his arm. "Yes, sir. He told me you recommended me for the position. Thanks."

"Well, you more than proved yourself yesterday, Ronald. Easy Company's in good hands."

Speirs smiles. It's more of a smirk, but there's no unpleasantness about it as he gives Winters a sidelong look. "Easy was always in good hands from what I hear, Captain. Sergeant Lipton, Lieutenant Compton…they're all good soldiers. The company wasn't going anywhere as long as one of them was in charge."

Winters sighs. "But we lost Compton. Thank God Lipton is still with us, but—"

"Well, if worse ever came to worse, they'd still have you."

Winters glances at Speirs. Speirs looks back. A moment's silence, and Winters smiles.

"Well," he says, "I just wanted to say congratulations, and that you couldn't be in command of better men. I'd give you the usual run-down on keeping an eye out for combat fatigue and relying on your NCOs, but it'd be unnecessary. I'm just glad a competent man's in command."

Speirs smirks again. The next words out of his mouth make Winters smile, too.

"Feeling's mutual, sir."

THE END


End file.
